Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Josie stared out at the mass of grey and white beyond her,
and wondered what it would be like if she could venture down below.

The Savions had claimed the higher ground as their home for
years. They are not aware of how they truly came to be there, but like all
great nations, there are many great stories to guide the people to their
destiny and the greatness they so desperately seek. These stories range from
the much expected tale of being created as a type cast of divine beauty, to the
most absurd scenarios which involve them willing themselves to evolve into the
greatest creatures to roam the vast dimensions. Many Savions preferred the latter
of course, as they are such a vain and proud people. However, vain though they
might they might be, their hearts are full of love, love for the natural beauty
tht surrounds them, and love for one another. You see, they are a gentle race
who hold no one person more important than the next, each being significant in
their path of life.

Friday, 13 September 2013

There's some beauty in the use of a keyboard. To watch ones hands
glide over key after key and produce something, something of truth, something
that can be shared with the world by a mere push of a button. It is this beauty
which draws me to typing. However there is something far greater, with much
more beauty held inside it. It is the illegible scrawl from one’s own hand; the
words which will be read by few, not many. Seen by a lucky minority, with
wonder, with each ink spill, each incorrect word with a line through it or
hurriedly scribbled out, each un-identical space, and letter the formation
unique to that one person. That is the greatest beauty of all, as no one, not
even the original author, can come to replicate the words on that page, that
scrap of paper, that receipt from the coffee shop. They will never be written
in the same hand, never with the same passion behind the eyes, fire in the
soul, never at that moment, with that surrounding.

People tend to forget, it is not solely the author who creates the
story, but every stimulus surrounding him at that time. It is not simply his
thoughts put upon a page, but every experience and situation which affected him
before and during those moments of creativity. When he slept and when he woke,
it was those first sounds, the first conscious breath, the first thought, the
first sight, smell and touch which created the precious text which one reads
and loses himself to.

Along with these experiences of the author, it is every experience of
the reader, the critic, which completes the story, as he reads and pulls his
own memories into effect, brings his own thoughts to weave themselves in with
the lyrical words of the author. He puts the meaning to the words, he decides
the signified, and he creates the character, with some direction of the author
but most from himself. He creates a completely different story to that of the
person who read it before him and the person who will read it next.

And that is the true beauty in literature, meanings change constantly,
due to context, personality, environment, beliefs and our understanding of the
signifier. A story will never be read the same way twice. A text will never be
given the same analysis. There will always be one person who finds a new
meaning, a new beginning, a new end, a new reasoning. And our discovery of
literature will expand endlessly as we expand with it. There is always more to
know, and i am keen to discover as much as I can before my time runs out.

Your gentle fingers brush away a few stray strands of hair
from my face; you look at me with such love and intent. My chin cupped in your
hand, you draw my face toward your own, your eyes boring into my soul. You move
closer, slowly but sure of your intentions, as your lips brush mine, my heart
stops, I don’t think. I am taken into another world with you, with you as my
only company. A euphoric world, your lips press against mine, your tongue
caressing them ever so slightly, past my lips and I feel your love wash over
me.

The pressure increases and the world which surrounds us
disappears completely, you pull me closer to you, your body pressed to mine and
I feel your heartbeat on my chest. My pulse races, my breath hastens. My cheek
is pressed to yours now, I feel your heat take over me, my lips are at your ear
now as you kiss my neck with your tender lips.

Your hand brushes against my collar bone and down my arm,
you pull me closer to you still as your lips meet mine a final time before you
release me from your spell and you are back to staring into my eyes. A hint of
madness behind a mist of love and I melt once more before I compose myself and
my heart teases my lips into the usual smile that gets you smiling right back
at me. I say to myself, ‘I love this man with every inch of me, my body, my
soul, my heart,’ and I vow to devote my life to you, looking into your eyes
once again, I know I will have no difficulty in keeping this unspoken promise.

Thursday, 12 September 2013

Yet still, I yearn for it, each night I lay in bed and I fantasize
about it, I wonder how painful it would be as my heart races desperately trying
to keep my unwilling body alive, I think about the fear that will set in as I
feel the burning heat of my organs overworking and then shutting down one by
one. I would panic, ‘Why have I done this?!’ and then I will remember the
emptiness that filled me before, and I will decide, that I prefer this pain. At
this point I imagine I will try to relax into it, knowing some feeling is
better than the neutrality I tried to fill myself with in living days, and as
death takes hold I will welcome it with open arms and I will beg of it, ‘Release
me from this burden’.

Every night I dream of it, and every night I know I am not
brave enough to make it happen.